For The Last Time, I’m Not Gay!- A Johnlock Fanfic
by franklyimdisappointed
Summary: John navigates the tricky waters of homosexuality while solving cases with Sherlock Holmes. Currently 5 Chapters. New chapters every 2-3 days. :)
1. The First Move

**_I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this. I only put them in situations for your twisted pleasure. Remember to drop a comment or suggestion! ;)._**

 **Chapter 1: The First Move**

"So, is this yer first time round 'ere?" The man spoke with a heavy accent, not quite enunciating every letter. It put Sherlock on edge- John could tell.

"Erm, yes. Yes it is." John replied.

"I'm sorry boys, but i's gonna have to be two singles I'm 'fraid. A couple jus' took our last double. "

"Oh, no... he's... we're... I'm... not gay." said John hastily. Sherlock stood in silence, and the man curled his lip as if to say 'yeah right'. John couldn't get his head around why this happened everywhere. It was perfectly normal for two men to stay in a hotel, or to get a taxi together. It didn't mean they were gay. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't understand why it bothered John so much. Everyone said it, and he thought it was better to stay straight-faced and bear it than tell every living soul on the planet that he wasn't gay. What did it matter what other people thought anyway?

"Thankyou." said Sherlock, taking the room key in one sweep, straightening his turned-up collar and moving swiftly outside.

It was windy, and Sherlock's hair was blowing wildly. John's, however, was almost perfectly still. After all, he did use product on it. As far as Sherlock was concerned, this made him gay. He's not gay.

"This way." said Sherlock. "The quicker we get this done the quicker we can focus on Moriarty."

John didn't like all this Moriarty business. It kept Sherlock busy, but at what cost? He was agitated, and mostly silent.

After a half hour trek across a muddy field and back, Sherlock had, no surprises, solved the case. The inhabitants of the small village were amazed, but for John this was something he'd seen many, many times before.

On their way back to the pub where they were staying, John asked, "Why is all this Moriarty business getting you so worked up lately? You've been so quiet, and you're never normally this quiet. " John's mind was immediately cast back to him walking into the flat and seeing Sherlock fire a gun into the wall and shout "Bored!"

"I'm thinking." Sherlock replied, bluntly, and continued to walk at a fast pace. He was obviously in a hurry to get back to the room and sit in silence again.

"Hey, wait!" Sherlock didn't stop or slow down.

When they finally arrived back at the room, they found it to be quite comfortable. The ceiling was low, and two charts were positioned around a small fireplace. Behind them, two single beds with matching deep red and green tartan bedding sat invitingly. A small bathroom was to the right, and a small kitchen area to the left.

"Shall I put the kettle on?" asked John, trying to be friendly. Sherlock day in silence with his hands in that same position, his expression one of deep thought.

"Oh yes please go on then why not." He suddenly replied, taking John by surprise.

"Okay," John muttered to himself while making two cups of coffee, one with sugar, one without.

They were sat drinking them in silence twenty minutes later when John once again decided to try and start a conversation.

"So, that was an interesting case. Imagine using a car door handle as a murder weapon and then glueing it back on?" Sherlock nodded. "Sherlock, I don't like all this silence. If I wanted to be this lonely, I'd move out."

"Don't do that." said Sherlock hurriedly. And a few moments later, "Perhaps the silence is better sometimes?" He put down his mug and moved over towards John's chair. He's taken off his coat and was wearing black trousers pants, a white shirt with the first three buttons undone, and a black suit jacket. His hair was windswept and his face tired.

'Tired,' thought John. 'But still handsome.' He tried to block the thoughts from his mind but they just kept coming. Sherlock taking off his shirt, Sherlock taking off his pants, Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, with less and less clothes each time. With him standing over him like that... it was hard not to. John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, and it was clear that they both wanted the same thing. Sherlock grabbed the front of John's t-shirt and pushed him against the wall. At first John was surprised, but after that, as he was stood there with his handsome 'platonic friend' towering over him, it was becoming harder and harder to just see him as a 'platonic friend'. John looked up at Sherlock, and Sherlock meant down to meet John's lips. That 'platonic friend' thing was way out of the window now. As they kissed, John managed to remove Sherlock's jacket and begin to unbutton what was still fastened on his shirt. Sherlock was better- he had already taken off John's t-shirt and jacket, and was beginning on his belt.

In a matter of minutes they found themselves completely undressed and close together on one single bed. John rested his head against Sherlock's chest, while Sherlock ran his hand through John's hair with his arm around his shoulder.

"I'm still not gay." John said, right before falling asleep in Sherlock's arms.

"If you say so," chuckled Sherlock. He got out his phone and started a text message:

Molly

John is gay.

SH.

And then fell asleep.


	2. The Reassurance

**_I do not own any of the characters mentioned in this. I only put them in situations for your twisted pleasure. Remember to drop a comment or suggestion! ;)._**

 **Chapter 2: The Reassurance**

Back in London, Sherlock was on the verge of another 'Bored!' incident. It had been two weeks since their last case, and nothing had happened. No mention of a new case to work, no mention of what happened after the last case. Although, he had received a very strange text message off Molly which just said: 'Congrats John!'. That was confusing.

"Boys- you've got another one." It was Mrs Hudson at their door, and standing behind her was a man looking completely distraught.

"Come i-" John started, however was interrupted.

"Do come in. Yes, take a seat and tell us _everything_." The man slowly walked in and perched on the edge of the chair, as if it was going to hurt him if he sat on it properly.

"It was my wife. They found her hung from the ceiling fan in our kitchen. No prints, so sign of struggle, no weapon, nothing."

"I see. And where were you when this happened?" Sherlock asked. The man looked as if he was going to cry.

"Why?! Why would you ask me that?! The police asked me, the inspectors asked me, but why?! Why would I kill my own, beautiful wife?!" He then began to cry. Loudly. John offered him a tissue.

"I'm not saying you hung your wife, but where were you?"

"I was away, on a work trip. The meeting I went to overran, so they booked us into a nearby hotel for the night. They said it was too dangerous to drive home at that time." Sherlock was deep in thought.

"We'll take it. Now, take us to your home so we can examine the crime scene." Sherlock swept out of the chair and put on his coat in a matter of seconds.

"Come on, John." He straightened his turned up collar and left the house. John sat there, bewildered for a moment.

"Come on John!" Sherlock shouted from downstairs. John sighed and put on his coat. He locked up the flat and they followed the man into a taxi.

"So, tell us about the incident in as much detail as you can."

"Okay. I was at a works meeting up in Birmingham, and it overran. I called my wife and told her I'd be staying at a hotel overnight. I went to the hotel, perfectly normal, and arrived home the next afternoon. I walked into the house and everything was normal. Nothing was out of place, nothing was damaged, there was no blood anywhere. I walked into the kitchen and she was hanging from the ceiling fan, dead as dead." The man kept giving John and Sherlock details, and eventually they arrived at the man's home just outside Oxford.

It was perfectly normal. No detail about the house could in any way suggest to an onlooker that someone had been found dead inside just weeks before. Even the police tape had been removed. The flowers weren't wilted, nothing was wrong. Even when they gingerly entered the house, nothing was wrong. There were no marks, scratches, dents or spots anywhere. The walls were decorated plainly, although every inch was adorned with butterflies, moths, spiders, and every manner of creature in display frames- most even had missing limbs stuck in other places on display, with a magnifying glass over it and labelled. There were cushions everywhere, too. They moved into the kitchen and the ceiling fan was broken. You could tell there'd been weight there. That was the only thing that even hinted at any strange or horrific occurrences.

"Thankyou." said Sherlock, and the man left.

"Sherlock, you do realise we still don't know what that man's name is, right?"

"Name? Oh, of course, his name. Hang on. Excuse me!" Sherlock called down the hall. The man came jogging back in. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "You can't just ask people what their name is- you've known him for two hours!"

"Why not? We didn't know his name, and now we will. What's the problem?" John sighed and shook his head.

"My name is Dean, I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets, long walks on the beach and frisky women. And I did not kill anyone."

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Okay." said John. "Thankyou Dean." Dean left.

"Okay." said Sherlock. "Look at the cracks around the fan. They indicate that pressure was evenly distributed around the fan, so she was hung directly in the middle. This means we're looking for someone who knows either this house or this particular model of fan extremely well. To get her exactly in the middle would take some knowing. It also means that this bolt was unscrewed to fit the rope. We need to examine the body to find out what type and thickness of rope was used, as well as how heavy she was. This will tell us if the person hanging her out on any extra pressure, perhaps pulling her down, and then we can figure out how heavy that person was, narrowing it down. This should help. The police said there were no prints anywhere?" Sherlock swivelled to look at John. John was just staring at the fan.

"I'm so sorry, do you need a minute?" asked Sherlock.

"No, I'm... I'm fine." Sherlock put his arm around John and pulled him close. This was the first indication that anything happened that night two weeks ago, and John was happy that it had happened. John looked up at the fan.

"Sherlock, how did you miss that?" There was a bunch of strands of the rope stuck in between the bolt and the fan.

"Eureka!" said Sherlock. He reached up to grab the pieces of rope. They came away fairly easily.

"Okay, we're done here. Go and tell... Ga, no... Ste... the man, that we're leaving."

"I'll go and tell _Dean_ that we're leaving."

"Right yes Dean I knew that." John smiled.

At Scotland Yard, John and Sherlock were talking to Lestrade.

"Hey, did you manage to figure out who stole that painting? We've been at it for weeks and the manager wants compensation now."

"Yes, I told you, it was the manager." said Sherlock, evidently bored.

"That son of a-! He's getting no bloody compensation off us! Molly's waiting for you."

"Thanks Greg."

"Who the hell is Greg?"

"Oh for God's sake Sherlock."

"Molly. Excellent. You have the body of the deceased?"

"Um yes. Her name was Sophie, 32, and worked as a private dentist." She unzipped the bag to reveal Sophie's face and neck. The rope marks were around 10mm thick and appeared to have some kind of plait imprinted on her skin. Sherlock took the strands out of his pocket and removed them from the plastic bag.

"She was hung with 10mm Manila rope, took about twenty minutes for her to die by asphyxiation. How much does she weigh?"

"158.3 pounds."

And Sherlock was lost in thought for at least 10 minutes.

"I've got it!" Sherlock spun round and kissed John on the forehead. "I've got it- it was James, no, Steve?, no..."

"Dean?"

"Yes! It was Dean."

"Why would he kill his own wife and then come to us about it?"

"Okay, first of all, when he came to see us, he used the past tense about his wife straight away, and shed'd only been dead for a week- no rejection or confusion or anything, the flowers were perfect, he still lives in the house, and also, there was no sign of a break-in, so whoever did it had to have a key. Dean has a key. Second of all, the animals on the walls. That's not normal."

"Plenty of people have butterflies on their wal-"

"No. He removed their limbs. And the way they were framed and put in place wasn't professional- it was him. That's not normal. Third: he knows the house. He would have known exactly how to hang her directly in the centre, probably thinking that the evenly distributed weight wouldn't make the ceiling collapse completely if at all, which, granted, worked a little. Fourth- when you look around the house, his and her belongings were distinctly separate. There was one wall dedicated to his animals, and nowhere else in the house was here any mention of them. Her cushions, blankets and whatever else she had were put in specific places so he could always keep them separate. He never loved her- or he could have at one point, but that doesn't matter anymore."

"But, why come to us to solve a murder that he committed?"

"For the recognition. All of the little animal torturing he did wasn't credited to him, not until now. Everyone thought what you did- that he'd bought them for decorative purposes. No- so he had to do something more drastic to get attention, and when Scotland Yard couldn't solve the case, he came to us to get recognition. Simple."

John took a deep breath.

"Wow. Okay, we need to alert Scotland Yard."

"John, we're at Scotland Yard."

"I'll, er, I'll go and tell Lestrade." said Molly. She quickly left the room. John turned to Sherlock.

"You know," he said. "You really are incredible. Incredible."

"Well, I was only being rational, seeing thi-"

"Shhh." John put this arms around Sherlock's neck, and Sherlock put his hands around John's waist. Then, they kissed. The first real acknowledgement that _that_ had happened. They continued kissing for what seemed like hours, until they heard running outside and broke apart. Lestrade came jogging in.

"Dean? _Dean?!_ The guy who brought you the case in the first place? How?"

"Inspector that's a lot of questions." replied Sherlock, who immediately answered all of them, explaining the entire situation.

"Wow." said Lestrade. "I need to get a team out to arrest him then, before he does something even more drastic for attention. And let's give this poor woman a funeral." Molly nodded slowly and zipped up the body bag.

When John and Sherlock burst back into 221B Baker Street, Mrs Hudson came briskly walking up to them. "Boys! You haven't been home for ages! What happened?"

"Well, Mrs Hudson, it's a long story involving an animal torturer hanging his wife from a ceiling fan. So, why don't you make us some tea and then we can discuss it?" Then Sherlock bounded upstairs, and John followed slowly.

"I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!" Mrs Hudson called up the stairs, but she brought tea and listened to the story nonetheless.

When she'd left, Sherlock turned to John.

"Shall we?"

"We shall." And they resumed where they'd left off at Scotland Yard.

It led them to Sherlock's (admittedly larger) bedroom, where they slept, unclothed, John resting his head on Sherlock's chest, Sherlock with his arms around John, until 8:38am the next morning.

Molly

John's still gay.

SH


	3. Wrists, Pt 1

**Chapter 3: Wrists**

For the first time, John woke up in Sherlock's arms, and it was wonderful. Sherlock woke only a couple of minutes after John. He smiled at him, and rolled out of bed.

"Coffee?"

"Please."

After Sherlock had disappeared down the hall, John sat up and got out of bed. He put the duvet straight and opened the curtains before walking down the corridor, rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock was pouring boiling water into two mugs. He put sugar in both and handed one to John, who tentatively took a sip. It wasn't actually that bad. Maybe he didn't mind sugar in his coffee. Sherlock almost jumped into his chair and turned on the TV. The news opening theme was shot at them at full volume.

"Turn it down!" yelled John. Sherlock calmly picked up the remote again and turned the volume down, and continued watching.

"Our top story this morning- police are sill baffled as to how London's latest most notorious serial killer has evaded them again. His latest victim was just 15 years old when he died. Forensics specialists say he was stabbed twenty-seven times with no pattern. The murderer also once again left a sign for police, and it keeps changing. This time- this. Please be advised this may be upsetting to some viewers." The camera cut to a wide, barkless tree with the word '逮' drawn on it. In blood.

"Sherlock-" said John, but Sherlock was already running out of the door, just as Lestrade was appearing on the news, giving a statement about how they are on the verge of apprehending the killer.

"Sherlock!" John grabbed his coat and ran downstairs.

"Sherlock, Lestrade is on this. It's going to be okay."

"No. No John it's not. The police never catch serial killers like this. Never." They continued briskly walking into Scotland Yard, where they were met by Lestrade.

"Sherlock thank God we were just about to come for you."

"Show me the body."

"Oh, of course." John and Sherlock went with Lestrade to inspect the body.

"Male, 15, quite sporty, 27 stab wounds spread all across the body, no pattern whatsoever. It was as if he was on a rampage, as if he were angry." Sherlock inspected the entire body, behind the ears, his fingers, his wrists.

"There. There. That's what you've been missing. I need the other three bodies. Immediately."

"Sherlock what's going on?" asked John.

"Look, on the back of his wrists. It's the same mark that was on the tree, I know it. But this is a scar. It's as if the killer marked out his victims months before he actually killed them."

"What?.."

Molly came running in, pushing three metal beds with three body bags on them, losing control of almost all of them. John rushed to help her, and they began to unzip the bags.

"Their wrists, look at their wrists." said Sherlock. Each wrist was turned over, and sure enough there was a scar on each wrist, just like the teenager.

"There. That's how we catch him. Molly, I need the order that these victims were killed in."

"Oh, this female first, her name was Phillipa Jones, 32. Then Michael Strauss, 68, then Poppy Wright, 24."

"The symbols on their wrists, it's Chinese. We need to translate them. Thankfully, I already have." Sherlock lined up the bodies with their wrists facing upwards.

"You. Will. Never. Catch. That's what they say. You will never catch."

"Who wants to bet that the next victim will have 'me' on their wrist?" said John.

"That's it!" We put out a nationwide search for anybody with 'me' in Chinese on their wrist."

"Er, it's not going to be that easy." Lestrade had just come in. "If we put out a nationwide search, chances are the killer is going to know. Then how do we catch a killer that isn't killing anybody?"

"I... don't know."

"Listen, we can't just let this person die just because then we won't catch them! That's giving up on them! We are supposed to save people, not leave them to die for the sake of more clues!" said John, shaking. Was it anger, fear or sadness?

"I'm sorry, John. But we can't do anything yet. We just have to find more clues."

"That isn't enough."

Sherlock put his arms around John, holding him close.

"It's going to be okay. We'll catch them, I promise."

"I know." said John.

"Did you know about this?" Lestrade whispered to Molly, who was beaming with delight. She nodded.

"Okay then."

When they broke apart, Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"When was the first attack?"

"Last Friday. The second was on Tuesday, the third Friday just gone." Sherlock was lost in thought.

"2,4,3. 3,2. 4,3,2...1" He turned around so fast John thought his neck was going to snap.

"The next attack- it's going to be tomorrow."

"What?" burst out Lestrade. "How?"

"It's simple. The first attack was Friday. Four days after that was the second attack- Tuesday. Three days after that was the third, on Friday. Today, the fourth attack, two days after the last. It's a pattern- 4,3,2, so the next will be one. One day after. It all makes perfect sense."

"So that means that tomorrow's attack will be the last, if it's 4 3 2 1." said John. "Also, 'you will never catch me' is a full sentence."

"Yes, maybe."

"Maybe? Tomorrow's obviously going to be the last one." said Lestrade.

"Maybe that's what he wants us to think, Lestrade. To catch them you have to think like them, that's why you always have to come to me, because you don't do that. I need a map." Molly ran off to get a map, and the rest of the group were stood in silence.

"So," said Lestrade. "When did, er, _this_ happen?" He gestured vaguely at John and Sherlock.

"A few weeks ago." said Sherlock, not really paying much attention.

"That's, er, good. Good for you." said Lestrade.

"I have the map!" said Molly, laying it out on a large table.

"Oh thank God." said John under his breath.

"Okay. We need to mark on the first four murders." said Sherlock. "There has to be a connection."

They pondered over the map for hours, but none of them could see a connection.

"They're all... two streets away from a corner shop?"

"Most things are two streets away from a corner shop Lestrade." Said John.

"...Right." said Lestrade.

Evening fell, and there was still nothing. All four of them were drifting into sleep.

"Coffee!" shouted Molly, who then immediately ran off to get coffee, almost knocking over several chairs on the way.

"Sherlock, the next murder could happen any time after midnight, and we still don't have anything. This person is going to die." Sherlock turned to John, and cupped his face in his hands.

"They're going to be okay, I promise." John smiled, and kissed Sherlock. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"If you two could not have sex here, that'd be great."

"Lestrade I kissed him. Do you have sex with _everyone_ you kiss?" asked Sherlock. John stifled a laugh, and Lestrade raised his eyebrows. Molly ran in with four cups of coffee, spilling a little every time she turned. She set that down on the table, and then began to look at the map again, but nothing looked any different. There really was no connection.

By 12, everyone was falling asleep. The caffeine had no effect, and they'd been poring over the map for over 12 hours.

"There's always... a... connection." said Sherlock sleepily, waving his finger in the air and proceeding I collapse on top of the map.

"Great. Now we can't see the map." said Lestrade.

"Er, guys." said Molly. "it's after midnight. The fifth murder could happen any time."

Sherlock suddenly woke up and yelled "Midnight!" before once again falling asleep.

"Helpful." said Lestrade.

"Hey!" said John, giving Lestrade a stern look.

"We're not getting anywhere." said John. Suddenly the door burst open.

"Lestrade, you need to come with me." Lestrade got up and followed the man, and John followed them too. They arrived at the door to Scotland Yard, where there were two bodies on the steps outside.

"Oh my God." said Lestrade and John at the same time. Molly ran up to them, followed slowly by Sherlock.

"Sherlock-" said John.

"Oh no." Said Sherlock, who immediately ran outside to inspect the bodies.

"Hey! You're not allowed here." yelled a man.

"Excuse me I need to get through"

"Like hell you do. Get back inside."

"Anderson for the love of God, let us past." said John.

"No. You're not cleared to be here."

"Anderson let them past." said Lestrade, walking up behind them.

"Why, Lestrade, why?! Why do you always let _him_ come in and ruin our reputation?!" Lestrade ignored Anderson, and walked back inside, while John and Sherlock walked up to the bodies.

"Which one was killed first?" asked John.

"I think our killer has already answered that." relied Sherlock. "Look. This one has been stabbed once, this one twice. One, two. First, second."

"Their wrists." said John. "What do they say?" Sherlock turned their wrists over.

"As expected, this one says 'me'. This one..." Sherlock trailed off.

"What does it say?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

 ** _Apologies for the short chapter, and for a severe lack of fluff. Next time will be better, I promise :)_**


	4. Wrists, Pt 2

**Chapter 3.5: Wrists, Pt 2**

"Sherlock Holmes. That's what it says- Sherlock Holmes."

"I know John. I can read." Sherlock was being unusually blunt.

"But, what does it mean?" asked Lestrade

"It means he knows I'm here." said Sherlock.

"Well of course you are- by now we would have asked you to help us anyway, and the whole of London and probably beyond knows that you help us." said Lestrade.

"No. He knows I did this voluntarily. I could have turned you down, but I didn't. I came to you the moment I saw on the news that there's been another murder. This means he knows Scotland Yard." Sherlock turned to face Lestrade. "He's on the inside."

"Sherlock? On the inside, what do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"It's simple. The murderer is in Scotland Yard, possibly right this minute. We have to do a full search."

"Or," said John. "We could just check the CCTV."

"Of course! The CCTV! John you're a genius!" Sherlock grabbed John's cheeks and kissed him, before running inside. Lestrade and John ran inside after him.

They found him sat staring intensely at a horde of computer screens.

"Did you find it?"

"No." Sherlock replied immediately. "It's been deleted. There's no footage of anything from after midnight up until we run outside. Nothing."

"That means he knows the system." said John.

"Exactly how far inside is this murderer?" asked Lestrade, clearly shaken.

"I don't know. And I don't like not knowing."

"So what do we do now?" asked Molly.

"Take the bodies. Look for anything we haven't found- DNA samples, fingerprints, anything. Lestrade- try to find the murder weapon. It'll be somewhere enclosed and with limited access, like some kind of store cupboard that only a handful of people have access to. John- with me. We're finding that CCTV." People ran in various directions as per Sherlock's instructions, with Lestrade looking a little startled.

"Sherlock, how on earth do we find deleted CCTV files?"

"Hacking, John. Hacking."

"You can hack?"

"Well yes it's not difficult."

Sherlock began to type away furiously, clicking madly and his eyes darting back and forth across the screen for half an hour, until he finally proclaimed, "I've got it!" John had been starting to lose hope, but somewhere inside he knew that Sherlock wouldn't let him down. His Sherlock would never let him down.

"So." asked John. "Who is it?"

"It isn't that simple. Clearly the person had compensated for this. Look, they're wearing a black balaclava and a black and orange coat that says 'Superdry' on it. They're wearing gloves too, so I bet Molly hasn't had any luck."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade came running into the office. "I haven't found a weapon, but I'll bet that a murder _er_ wears a balaclava when committing his crimes."

"Brilliant! We'd just managed to get the CCTV footage back- the murderer was wearing a balaclava."

"There weren't any black gloves there by any chance?" asked John.

"Actually, there were. I'll go and get them."

"Great. Meet us with Molly." said Sherlock.

"Molly!" Sherlock pushed open both doors fabulously, and walked straight to the bodies. "Anything?" he asked.

"Oh, er, yes. I've found quite a few of these fibres all over the bodies, but no hairs or fingerprints."

"That's because they were wearing gloves." said Lestrade, running in. "But, er, we have a problem. The gloves- they're gone."

"Get his building locked down immediately." said John. "He knows we're getting close. He cannot leave this building."

"I'll go." said Lestrade, jogging back out. John's face was stern. He was tense.

"The fibres- were they similar to those on a pair of wool gloves?" asked John.

"It's difficult to tell, without seeing the gloves. But it's possible that the gloves and that balaclava were part of a set, so I'll see if the fibres match." Molly took a few strands of wool from the balaclava and took them along with the samples from the body to the microscope. While she was busy, Sherlock turned to John.

"You look tense."

"Yeah, I am. We're in the same building as a cold-hearted killer, and we don't even know who it is! Of course I'm tense!" John was about to explode. Sherlock held him close and kissed his forehead.

"We will figure this out, I promise."

"I know." said John, leaning up to kiss Sherlock. Their lips met, and John forgot about everything that was going on. For a blissful few seconds, there was no murderer, no problem, just Sherlock.

"Er, I'm sorry to interrupt, but, it's a match. The person who owns this balaclava is our murderer." said Molly.

"See?" said Sherlock. "I told you we'd figure it out." He smiled, looking pleased with himself, and not because they'd figured it out- because he'd made John happy. Lestrade came back in, looking disgruntled and unhappy.

"The building is on lockdown. It I told them to be discreet about it. If the murderer doesn't know that we're on lockdown, he won't be as panicked."

"Good thinking." said John. "And the balaclava fibres match the ones we found on the body perfectly."

"Where did you find the balaclava?" asked Sherlock.

"Maintenance." replied Lestrade. "They have their own section of Scotland Yard, so all of their offices and cupboards and meeting rooms are in the same area. It was in a cupboard next to Kimberley's office."

"Brilliant. What else was in the cupboard?"

"Er, nothing. Just that and the gloves."

"Okay. We need to find a black and orange Superdry coat, approximately men's size small."

"That's Kimberley's coat! She wears it almost every day." exclaimed Lestrade. "Wait..."

"Kimberley!" shouted Sherlock. "It's her! Find her. Now."

Lestrade ran off to gather every security officer he could find to arrest Kimberley. John and Sherlock followed closely. They managed to catch her just as she was leaving, conveniently enough. John watched as two officers put her in handcuffs and frogmarched her to a cell. She was silent.

"Do you think she's guilty?" asked Molly.

"All signs point to her." said Sherlock. "And anyway, if it's not, then she'll be released with no charge and the real murderer will think they've gotten away with it."

"Which they won't have." added John. He was smiling now, and it was obvious that he'd loosened up since before. Sherlock put his arm around John and they walked out of Scotland Yard to hail a taxi.

Back at 221B, Mrs Hudson was rushing around with kettles and pans and talking about how worried she was.

"You boys just left yesterday morning, and you've only just got back! Where've you been?" She wasn't stern; it was worry that tinged her voice.

"Mrs Hudson, we are grown men. We are allowed to leave the house." said John.

"Yes well next time tell me first, I had about eight cups of tea up there for you that've gone stone cold! You'll be washing the mugs next time!"

"But Mrs Hudson, you're our landlady, not our housekeeper." said John.

"Oh don't you start now!" said Mrs Hudson, slightly laughing. "Go on- upstairs." The three of them laughed, and John and Sherlock went upstairs. Sherlock went straight into his bedroom, and emerged around 30 seconds later wearing pyjamas. John was stood over a boiling kettle making hot chocolate.

"I'll be in in a moment." He said.

"I know." said Sherlock, putting his arms around John and kissing the top of his head.

Molly

John's my boyfriend.

SH


	5. An Unexpected Return

**Chapter 4: An Unexpected Return**

"Morning boys!" Mrs Hudson's voice rang through the air.

"Dammit!" said John, jumping out from under the duvet and frantically trying to find the pants he'd lost last night.

"By the door." said Sherlock, pointing lazily. John had managed to get on his pants and was halfway into a shirt when Mrs Hudson opened the bedroom door.

"Morning! I brought you coffee and croissants. I know you worked hard yesterday. I saw it on the telly- that murderer's been caught, and Lestrade said you two were involved."

"Oh, er, yes, we, er, solved, ouch." said John, stuck in his shirt, which he'd tried to put on over his head for ease. Sherlock laughed and got out of bed to help him.

"You idiot." he said.

"I'll just leave you two alone then shall I?" asked Mrs Hudson, putting the tray in a bedside table and closing the door after her.

Sherlock's curly hair was everywhere.

"Come here. Let me sort that out." said John. He gently ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair and straightened it out. "That's better."

The pair of them tiredly traipsed into the living room, where the flopped down into chairs and Sherlock grabbed a newspaper.

"We forgot the coffee and croissants." said John, very fed up. Sherlock didn't move.

"I'll get them." said John, getting out of his hair and walking towards the bedroom.

"I wasn't going to." said Sherlock.

John came back a few moments later with Mrs Hudson's tray of breakfast. He offered it to Sherlock, who didn't say anything- he was engrossed in a story titled 'Twelve dead in house fire- police baffled'.

"We have to take this case."

John took the newspaper from Sherlock and looked at it, very confusedly.

"Sherlock- this is from 1997."

"Oh," said Sherlock, grabbing it back off John and throwing into the bin.

"Morning!"

"What?!" exclaimed John and Sherlock in unison.

"Lestrade?" yelled John.

"Yes. Hi. We need you."

"Well we figured that out." Said Sherlock. "You're at our house at eight thirty in the morning wearing your coat inside out. You're not here to say hello."

"What?" said Lestrade, looking at his coat. "Oh for God's sake!" While Lestrade was taking off his coat and putting it the right way round, Sherlock stood up and began to walk into the bedroom.

"Come on!" he said to John.

"Calm down I'm coming." He said, and followed him to get dressed. Sherlock had already jumped into a pair of black pants and was tucking in a white shirt. John got out a pair of jeans and a blue striped shirt and started to put them on. By the time he'd gotten on the pants and was buttoning up the shirt, Sherlock was completely ready. He went over to John.

"Hurry up!" he said, not angrily though. He very quickly buttoned up the rest of John's shirt and threw his coat at him on the way back to the living room.

"Okay then." John muttered, putting on the coat and rushing back to Lestrade.

In the taxi to Scotland Yard, Lestrade began to tell the pair the details of the case.

"We've had seven heart attacks just in London this week." He began.

"That's not ridiculously abnormal." Replied John.

"I wasn't finished. We've had seven heart attacks this week- people who were perfectly healthy and mostly under the age of 35."

"Oh."

"Yeah. We haven't been able to find any correlation but there has to be something we've missed. Seven healthy young individuals don't just die from a heart attack in a week."

"You're right." Said Sherlock. "We'll take a look at the bodies."

"Molly." Said Sherlock as they walked in.

"Oh, yes hello. I have the bodies, and the medical records for all seven victims." John walked over to one, a man in his early twenties. He was fairly muscular, and his records said he had no history of illnesses causing heart attacks.

"Strange," he muttered.

"Yes, strange. But there's nothing on any of the bodies. Did you check for poisons?" Sherlock swivelled around to Molly.

"Yes, there's nothing. No drugs, poisons or gas exposure." Sherlock sat puzzled, for almost 25 solid minutes.

"Sherlock? Are you okay?" asked John.

"Wha?- Oh, yes, fine. Just thinking."

"And?.."

"Nothing."

"All we can do is go home and think."

"Where were they found?" asked Sherlock, suddenly invigorated.

"All at their houses." Said Lestrade. "The only way they could have been murdered is if the murderer had the key."

"Or they were let in." said Sherlock. Clearly he was on to something.

"What do you mean let in?" asked Lestrade.

"What if their profession was one that allowed them to go door to door and meant that they were frequently let into people's homes?"

"They'd have to be a damn good salesman." Said John.

"But that would make it difficult to target people. They wouldn't let you in if they knew that you didn't like them."

"What if they weren't- wait." Said Sherlock. "They're being used."

"Used?" said Lestrade.

"Yes, used. They can't kill anybody they know, which makes it difficult to target people. Which means that, since there's no correlation between any of the victims, the murderer is being used."

"Or he's just a psychopath who murders people on his job?" said John.

"No, he wouldn't be stupid enough. Every door-to-door salesman has a list of houses they have to visit. If every house where somebody's been murdered was on your list, it'd be pretty easy to know that you're the murderer. Which means that the person using them wants to be found."

"Sherlock, are you sure you're not overthinking things?" asked John, looking concerned.

"No," said Sherlock, cupping John's cheek. "I swear to you- I am right."

"Okay..." said John.

"So who's using them? Why?" asked Lestrade.

"If I knew, I wouldn't be here." said Sherlock.

"How do we find out?"

"I have ideas. CCTV where the bodies were found. That's where we'll start."

"Already done." said Lestrade. "There's nothing of any value- the assailant enters the home after standing outside for around ten minutes each time. They never come out."

"What?" said Sherlock. "What do you mean they never come out?"

"Well they never come out. They go in and don't come back out." said Lestrade.

"Can you see their face?" asked John.

"Well, yes. Partially. If we find footage of an exit then we'd probably be able to fit the two together."

"Excellent. We have to go to the victims' houses and try and locate a second security camera." He swept out of the room.

"Er, John..."

"Hm?"

"I'm... glad for you."

"Hmm?"

"I'm glad. For you. And Sherlock."

"Oh, er, thankyou."

"You're welcome." Lestrade smiled, and left John standing alone.

"Number fourty-four. Are you sure?"

"Positive John."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, John. I've said- positive."

"Well, we have to break in. I don't want to break into the wrong house."

"I'm positive."

John checked to see if anyone was watching, then headed round the back of the house. Sherlock followed him, and watched him push his elbow against the back living room window.

"Have you even checked if there is a camera?" Sherlock hissed.

"Yes. Up there." John pointed to a small red light hidden in some ivy by the upstairs window.

"Good. In we go." said Sherlock, vaulting through the window to avoid the broken glass. John followed. Within minutes Sherlock had located and successfully hacked the family computer.

"Here."

John looked at the computer, wide-eyed. Sherlock put on the date and fast-forwarded the tape to when the murderer went inside. About 25 minutes later, a man emerged from the back door.

"There." John pointed at the screen, and the pair of them watched, unblinking. The man made his way across the garden and pushed through the hedge.

"Damn." said John. They looked away from the screen, and it began to make a fuzzing noise. They Boy looked back immediately.

A man appeared on the screen. Vacant expression, dead behind the eyes. He said one phrase. Over and over again.

"Did you miss me?"

Sherlock's phone began to ring rather loudly, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. It carried on ringing but Sherlock wasn't flinging. John reached into his inside pocket and took out the phone.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock- you need to come back to Scotland Yard. Now."

"Why? What's going on?"

"John! Oh, hello. You both just need to get back here. This is going to change the case completely."

Lestrade hung up.

"Sherlock?" said John gently. "We have to go." Sherlock looked at John and immediately swept him up into a hug.

"I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"Everything."

"There's no need to be sorry." said John. Sherlock leant down and kissed John.

He turned around and copied the CCTV tape at the speed of light, then grabbed John's hand and pulled him out of the house.

"Lestrade- what's going on?" asked John, almost completely out of breath.

"There's another body. And it's the murderer."

"What?" John burst out.

"I thought this might happen." said Sherlock. "You know who we're dealing with."

"Moriarty."

"Yes. Where's the body?"

"Molly has it."

Sherlock briskly walked out of the room to Molly. John and Lestrade followed.

"Hello." said Sherlock, rolling up his sleeves. Molly immediately wheeled in a body. John gasped- it was covered in stab wounds. Every inch of the body was mauled and mangled. Sherlock put his arm around John and looked carefully at the wounds.

"I need to clean it."

Molly handed him antiseptic and a cloth. After about half an hour, the body was completely clean of blood, and everyone could see why Sherlock had wanted to clean it.

The stab wounds were letters. The body was a message. Sherlock held John close as they read those fear-inducing words:

"Did you miss me?"

 ** _Thanks to everyone still reading this, and my sincere apologies for being completely incapable of writing Molly. Drop any comments or suggestions ;)_**


	6. When Bad Gets Worse

**_Hi! I'm so, so sorry that I haven't posted in ages. If you want me to keep posting this, then can you please leave me a message so I know? Thankyou so much. :)_**

 **Chapter 5**

"No." said John, trembling with fear.

"Yes." said Sherlock, holding him close.

He was back. John's worst fear had been realised- Moriarty was back. After the night at the swimming pool, John couldn't bear to think about him at all.

"Sherlock?"

"It's... not possible."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock's face was void of emotion. John could tell he was tense.

"Sherlock. What's going to happen?"

"I...don't know. And I don't like not knowing." Lestrade was stood in utter silence, stunned. Just as he was about to say something, the speakers crackled. The TV switched on. And the same, mortifying message was broadcast to all.

"Did you miss me?"

 ** _This is super short, sorry. :(_**


End file.
